One Crisis At A Time
by Trinity Archangel
Summary: Kyrie has a secret that sends Dante's moral compass spiraling. Trish is pulling away from him, Nero doesn't trust him, and no one trusts Lance. This may be the devil's hardest and most trying mission to date, with the future of his relationships riding one unscrupulous decision. Trying to finish what I started years ago. Dante, Trish, Nero, Kyrie, OC.
1. One Crisis At A Time

Trying a different thing again. Will be removing and updating and editing at random. No big plans for this.-TC

A Fancy New Trick

Nero was not immune to fatigue. Though the cult-like religion, The Order of the Sword, had been vanquished, it was difficult for what was left of Fortuna to dismiss a heritage rooted deep in hero worship, demonic conspiracy and its involvement in it. For a while, the remaining hellions paid irregular visits to Fortuna to terrorize citizens and those who were not disposed of by the rapidly dismembering Holy Knights, would meet their timely end by Nero's hand, quite literally.

At present, he was running though the alleyways trying to conceal his right arm in a bloodied white sling, although the summoned blue entity hovering over him was overt and intimidating. His spiritual ally mirrored him to some degree, apart from exceptional circumstances when he was getting his ass handed to him, then it seemed to drift about until his adrenaline wore off and then it would retreat into his arm like a genie to a lamp. His shadow barely grazed the rubble at his feet, the city a crumbling catastrophe because of him.

Home was a handsome little dockside loft that The Order had arranged for Credo and he extended his arms to Nero as a brother, as a guardian and largely failed mentor. Since his death Nero and Kyrie existed as reluctant and uneasy lovers, as if the weight of Credo's disapproval smothered them. When he got in, he went straight to Kyrie's room and cracked open the door to peek in at her. He knew she would be asleep, because many a night he'd whispered to her the events of his day until he'd succumb to sleep himself, and rise early enough to make himself scarce least she discover his intrusion. Tonight, he was too exhausted to speak. At the foot of her bed his back met the wall where he slid down to the floor, staring at her soft slumber through half slanted eyes.

His still very present demon seemed to escape his notice and concern and tonight, the very patient and impious presence did not retreat. It had been nearly four months since the hell gates rose and fell, and ever since, Nero felt he was losing control of the demon in his human coffin. Every time Nero summoned it, he dared to venture away from control, but that Devil Bringer would draw it back so suddenly, as if it was a chained dog, bringing sense back into him in the same instant. Now he slept soundly at its feet.

Nero's arm had untangled from the sling; a pattern of scaly dermis, with thick, claw- like fingers hooking like talons peeking from the elbow down from his apparel. The enigmatic appendage was too conspicuous to be hidden away in a sling. Despite that, the most alluring thing in the room was Kyrie, and that necklace lying around her supple young neck.

When the entity returned to its chasm in his arm Nero awoke with a jolt. He knew there was no time to be exhausted. If he paused a moment more he was bridging the gap between _them_ and in his present state only distance was his ally. He pushed off the floor with his good arm and called to Kyrie as he rose.

"Kyrie…" He whispered sharply, rousing her firmly. "Get up."

Her eyes fluttered open to look him in the face knowingly. Although she did not react to him touching her, he slid his arm back and hid it in the sling again, darting his eyes away from her because she had always been overly modest, especially now.

"A-are you okay?" She nursed, shielding herself with her bed sheets although she was masked by darkness. She was speaking to his back.

It was only when she asked did he realized that he was trembling like a leaf, almost uncontrollably. He could only imagine what he looked like—and what she thought of him. He heard her shuffle behind him.

"I did it again," he admitted, the shame in his voice hidden by a whisper.

"Nero!" She somehow managed to sound disciplinary and disappointed in the same expression.

"It bought us some time," he shot out over his shoulder defensively.

There was more frantic scurrying going on behind him, the rustle of sheets, the urgency of footsteps and several drawers being opened and slammed shut.

A few seconds later he spoke again, although it seemed like an eternity since he'd been standing there facing the wall. "They know. We have to go this time."

"Where?" She responded, willing. He knew she was ready when her hand slid into his, an instant comfort. He did not pause to savor the moment.

"Devil May Cry."

________

Two hundred and forty-three miles west steering a black El Camino with one arm before anyone had ever even heard of Devil May Cry. At the five fifty mile marker, Kyrie's bladder was set to burst. She reached over a delicate hand and touched Nero's arm. He seemed to jump from his comatose gaze at the wheel, the violets and purples of the dusk masking the sleep on his face. He was alive again immediately and attentive. She gave a pleading glance at the self -service gas station just off the road up ahead, an oasis of dust and sand in an otherwise lifeless and drab road into town. Reluctantly, he pulled up to pump nearest to the road and began filling up while she scurried off to the Port-O-Potty on the side of the cement building. Under the blue open sign, GAS and XXX flickered in pink and yellow neon lights. Beneath that there was a man sitting on a box crate near the door smoking a cigarette and nursing a beer. Nero adjusted his arm in the sling and called out to the dark stranger.

"Hey," he started, walking toward him. "You know a guy named Dante?"

The man looked up and touched his ear to signal that he hadn't heard.

"Dante," Nero repeated. "Owns this placed called Devil May—"

Before he'd finished the sentence the stranger sprang up from his box and ran off to the right side of the building to a blue pick up truck. His bottle of beer was still rolling to a stop when the truck backed out and was tearing up the road with a trail of dust clouds kicking out from behind his wheels.

Nero was attacked from behind, a surging force driving him forward into the neon lights and pinning him to the wall. An eruption of sparks rained down on him like confetti. He felt the warmth of blood trickling down his leg when he glanced down and touched the javelin stapling him into the building side. Realization hit him hard.

"Kyrie!!! Run!!"

Unarmed, he threw a vicious elbow into the face of the armored deity behind him, backing up the Bianco enough to tear free and start toward the Port-O-Potty. An about face had him staring into the chest of a former Holy Knight Officer who threw up his arms politely in a non- threatening manner, the gold insignia from his white jacket gleaming as though it had its own internal light. He turned his attention to the Bianco, drew his sword and set to work on it quickly with the aid of two more Holy Knights that seemed to be materializing from thin air.

"How the hell are you finding us?" He didn't wait for a reply. He darted past the battling quartet and exposed his potential, squeezing his side as if he thought his intestines would fall out if he let up. Cold sweat dotted his face.

Kryie had heard his instruction and was barely to the car when the Devil Bringer gripped her shoulder from behind and zipped her back toward Nero in a blue flash. It had occurred too quickly for her to make sense of anything. When she looked into his face he seemed to be in a feverish quake, the expression on his face nearly lifeless when he loomed over her. He was hurt.

"I can't stop it now," he rasped, his voice hissing out like a fire suddenly doused with water. She cowered at his feet and mashed her eyes shut. The trio of Holy Knights suddenly became an entourage engulfing them with swords drawn cautiously. Nero untangled his foot from Kyrie's grasp and took a small step forward in a somnambulist trance, sending a wave of energy similar to a small seismic disturbance rippling out from his feet. His footsteps echoed like thunder while white- hot flames danced off his body in an angelic aurora, and when he opened his mouth the same flames burst from his lips and eyes with raging intensity.

"Get away." It was too monotonous to decipher as a warning or a threat. Either way it came much too late. A silent burst of energy exploded from his body and rippled out in a mirage of blinding white light. When the ringing in their ears subsided, every power line and tree in the area was leaning away from him. A second later and a fine mist of blood showered them momentarily. When the last white feathers fell gingerly from the once Alto Bianco, the city lights in the distance flickered off indefinitely.

________

Dante hadn't said a word. He'd sat in his tattered velvet desk chair like a mannequin, his brows furrowed slightly at the middle with a fixed frown on his lips. He had been absorbing the news for several minutes now, his expression unchanging. The only animation in the room came from a desperate moth fluttering about the light from the ceiling fan. Then Trish sighed.

He darted his eyes at her but he quickly retreated into the ghost-like trance he had been in before.

The phone ringing offered some relief but it pierced the silence like a knife and startled Trish with a jolt. Unthinking, she reached for it with a too soon eagerness that finally coerced a reaction from Dante. He sat up and shot his hand over to the phone before she had slithered across the desk. He picked it up off the hook and casually dropped it back onto the receiver. It wasn't time to break the silence. She righted herself atop his desk, perched in the top left corner with her slender legs lapped casually. She was trying too hard to be nonchalant, defeating her own purpose at appearing placated with the state of things. It was obvious that she was attempting to deaden the severity of the news, downplay it with a half- hearted air of sympathy. If she tried to comfort him, her words would fall short, and if she pretended that it was insignificant enough to be dismissed she would insult him. Either way she was at a loss.

Now there was a faint hum vibrating from the confines of his pant pocket. This distraction too, he would ignore. Trish dared to look at him. Dante was not alive inside. Soon after the humming stopped her own cell phone danced across the desk with urgency. She snatched it up despite herself.

"Devil May Cry," She greeted. She was surprised at how meek her voice rang out. It gave away her true feelings.

"Dante." The voice returned flatly.

"Look. He isn't—"

Dante held up his hand to stop her from getting rid of a potential job. Tragedies aside, they needed money.

"I'll take it. Whatever it is," he mumbled. His voice didn't betray him.

Trish nodded. "See you in five."

Finally, with a defeated sigh, Dante rose up, undraped his crimson coat from the back of the chair and flagged out the wrinkles with a snap. In a sort of flair only he could master, he slid into his coat with ease and patted his holster for Ebony and Ivory. He did not meet her eyes.

"Dante…"

"I'm fine." His words snapped off her sentence abruptly.

But he was not fine. His fingers fumbled to zip up his vest. His hands shook when he reached for his motorcycle keys. He gestured for her to get Alastor.

"I'm fine," he repeated, softer, starting for the front. He couldn't even convince himself.

Trish found the letter that poisoned him nestled atop a sea of receipts. When it fell from his fingertips it contented to cover his financial hardships and take precedence as the new bother in his life. She crumpled it in her hand and threw it into the trash. The contents did not matter. Regardless of where it ended up, it would not change the fact that Lady was dead.

A Curious Acquisition sat in darkness as usual, an ominous green glow hailing from the front window where the slumped figure of a man sat busily at work. There was no particular style to the building, no hint of purpose of the business. The sporadic décor ranged from rusted medieval suits of armor, incomplete, a broom instead of a sword betwixt the faded silver hands, flowerpots of dried dirt for helmets guarding either side of the front screen door, to several angelic bird baths and mangled pink flamingos. The porch was littered with books, stacks of books towering like pillars up to the awning, the pages brown and rotted with neglect and staling the air about the entrance. The gutters were not connected, the front steps half collapsed, the visible windows were filmed with moss, and the lone oak tree beside the establishment seemed to grow into the top floor and drape the roof with decaying branches.

When Dante killed the engine under the sloping car porch dankness enveloped them quickly. He hated coming to Lance's and had it not been for Trish he would have never made the acquaintanceship of this very queer man. But she had been insistent that they required help from outside sources. He did not argue when he saw no avail to her practices; Enzo, Trish, a saintly priest, (sans Lady) and Lance still did nothing to aid the popularity of his very grim business. But Trish was Trish, and he had to allow her to exercise her partnership. But he hated Lance.

By the time they'd approached the front door, Dante had fixed his face to the smug confidence his abilities afforded him, and Trish gaped at him in disbelief. He had bottled up his hurt as usual. He jabbed a finger into the doorbell. Not surprisingly, it didn't work.

"Open up," He bellowed.

"What's the password?" A voice growled back at him. Lance always sounded like a growling dog.

Dante balked. "Password?"

"That's right, motherfucker. Every time I call the shop I can barely get a word out before you're asking me for a password. So what's the password?"

Trish bypassed the restriction and pushed open the screen door, inviting herself inside. His green glass lamp shade cast a ghostly glow about the room, faintly illuminating the floor to ceiling mountain of books that closed off the lobby and forced the visitors to stand in front of his desk, shoulder to shoulder.

Lance was a mystery because he lied about everything, including the mundane, solely for entertainment purposes. Lance only entertained himself. When he wasn't lying he was somber and sneering. What he couldn't lie about was obvious; at some point in his past he had suffered violently from pox, scarring his face and hands to the point where his skin resembled cottage cheese. He breathed like he was in an iron lung, a habit he probably adopted from having polio, but he attributed his corkscrew way of walking to rickets.

A savant of sorts, he had no real work to do but busy himself solving astronomically puzzling mathematics, priding himself at discovering alternative solutions. There was no one to tell him if he was ever wrong. Despite his literary and mathematical fetishes, Lance was Dante's cleaner and unemployment agent.

He hated Dante from the first day he asked him how he ended up with a name like Violence Black. "Where in the hell did you get a name like _Dante_?" He fired back, his lungs deflating like a balloon. "Isn't it obvious that my mother, a victim of a sexual crime was compelled by her overly religious parents to keep the baby growing inside her and bitter with the world, made her distaste evident by naming her son Violence? You uncouth fuck!" When he had deflated a second time, he quieted an infuriated Dante by allowing him to call him simply, Lance. A nickname derived from the mispronunciation on his part of the word 'violence,' emphasis on the latter syllable.

Presently, he grabbed a handful of his raven hair and threw it over his shoulder before glancing up at Dante with a grin.

He pointed an instructive finger to a pile of half opened mail on the sole chair in front of his desk.

"Get your mail, devil." He offered him an envelope between his forefingers without looking up.

Dante stared at him for an uncomfortable moment before taking the already opened letter.

"Job is, as a job does." Lance offered.

Dante gathered up the rest of his mail in one sweep and marched outside without pardoning himself. The screen slammed shut behind him with the hinges squealing.

"What's red's problem?"

Trish scolded him silently with a stern look.

"Don't get mad at me, honey, his mail sits here for weeks. I was out of reading material."

He lit up a cigar and leaned back over his desk, casting a bulky shadow over his paperwork.

Trish slapped her hands on his desk and leaned into him. "Listen, we don't pay you to withhold information."

Lance flared up. "Wrong, you don't pay me at all. Where's my cut from the last job? And before that?" He waved his hands frantically in an attempt to shoo her from atop his desk. "And get that pair out of my face." He sucked in a raspy breath and sat back in his chair.

"Dante doesn't pay you because you open his mail."

He settled down when she moved back from his desk. "It's my address," he mumbled in defense. "Dante doesn't have any fucking money to keep himself or his business afloat, far less pay me to share." He dove back into his work as if Trish wasn't looming over his desk with her arms folded.

"That's it," he dismissed, waving her away when she didn't leave immediately. Screwing around with you devils'll have me deader than—well, you know who."

Aghast, she turned in a huff but a single step from letting herself out when a blinding flash from outside lit up the night sky and sent a tremor through the building. Lance placed a casual paw atop his desk lamp to stop it from rattling when the lights went out with a sizzle. The screen door creaked open and Dante's voice sailed in.

"Let's ride east, Trish. Alastor didn't like that."

By the time Dante exited off the Crux-Faire Bridge that linked the two Islands together, Downtown Crux, where they were from, and the more upscale Faire where he was heading, the lights were on again. At the edge of Faire, the city got rural and dirt roads welcomed you into the sticks.

Trish leaned over Dante's shoulder to speak when they'd stopped at a light. "We don't have to go."

Her statement didn't encourage a response.

Lady practically named his business. And just like that—she was gone. He never realized how dreadfully attached he was to a girl he rarely saw if only to offer him a hand in his work. She was largely a catalyst in his life until now when she was consumed in a devilish medium. No explanation to resolve his resounding questions. Lady was dead. She was dead and it should have been something as simple as an illness. Human life was far too fragile to tamper long in a supernatural world. He felt Trish's hand tighten around his waist. _No time for mourning._

"I _said_, we don't have to go. Furthermore, we need to finish our conversation."

Dante snorted at her desire to bring up their unfinished business of last week. Trish would raise the dead if she could. No time for conversation either. The light had changed and he was on his way outside of town for a surprise.

The gas station was still standing. The storefront windows had been blown out; the two self-service gas pumps were skeletal remains and the large silver bulb gas tank once on the side of the store only held an outline of its memory. Kyrie didn't have a scratch on her, though she was dotted with blood, and Nero was in a seizing fit, writhing in the bloody mud.

She was cradling him in her arms when the headlights from Red Rocket fell upon them like a halo and the pair of benevolent heroes stepped off the red steed and greeted her with surprised expressions.

Kyrie had only seen Dante twice before, neither on especially favorable terms and now she was uncertain of how to respond to him. Trish on the other hand was a virtual stranger. Dante winked at her casually, getting the blush he was looking for and stooped down over Nero. Kyrie shuffled to her feet when Dante seized his collar and sat him up, hugging her arms around her body as if she were exposed. Dante rolled his eyes at her coy behavior.

"Hey, kid! You alive?"

Nero peeled open his eyes. "Dante…H-how did you find –?"

Dante held up a hand to silence him. He placed the same hand on his shoulder to steady him when he tried to get up.

"My spider sense was tingling." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Alastor who was humming a faint greeting.

Nero's mouth flopped open but no words came out. Dante put his shoulder into his midsection and stood with him flopped over his back like a sack of sand.

"One question," Dante started, steadying himself under his weight. "Who did this to you?"

Nero managed to gurgle a reply. "I did."

Dante turned to face a dusty little El Camino hugging the shoulder across the street. The roof was smashed in as if it had been flipped over but it was otherwise in decent condition. Dante seemed to appreciate the find.

"Nice! Trish, take the girl and follow me back." He tossed her the motorcycle keys and started toward the car as the sound of wailing police sirens and ambulances neared.

"Just in time…" He grumbled, dropping Nero into the tail bed.

Then it started to rain.


	2. No Time For Mourning

Note: I press on, despite popularity (or lack there of). I'll probably just give up after this. Stick with me, it'll make more sense soon, i promise. Who am i even talking to? I dunno, i figured i'd try something different (addressing my audience, ha ha ha) because i notice a bunch of people doing it, seemed nice. They also take the time to thank reviewers, so i'll thank my one: Flowing Tears. Hopefully, i still have you.

There was too much fuss, confusion and arguing going on in the small, cramped downstairs bathroom of A Curious Acquisition. Lance was standing in the bathtub holding on to the shower rod, barking ignored orders at Trish who was trying to coax Nero into taking off his shirt. Nero, perched defensively atop the toilet and steadily loosing blood, seemed more belligerent now that he was ghostly pale and near feverish. Kyrie was doing her best to calm him and Dante hung back by the open door, leaning against the frame, trying to separate himself from the chaos and pacify his own migraine.

"Will you just let me see where you got cut?"

"Just get away from me!" Came the ungrateful reply.

Dante took a step back, feeling dazed.

"You're just in the way, why don't you shut your pretty little ass and go sit down?" That was Lance, crass and cutting, growling after Kyrie who darted out of the bathroom with her eyes brimming with tears. Nero started into Lance straight away and Lance, fed up, dismissed him with a wave of his hand before stomping sluggishly from the bathroom to his desk chair in the lobby, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

Dante stared on. When Trish finally noticed him idling pitifully by, she coldly rose up and shut the bathroom door, closing him out.

"Ouch," He grumbled, feeling dismissed.

Lance was a less than welcoming host when Dante showed up unexpectedly with two unacquainted visitors, one semi- conscious and oozing a trail of what he hoped was not blood onto his newspaper flooring, and one coy little thing avoiding eye contact at all costs. He raged and resisted at the door, but Dante insisted rather aggressively and Trish bypassed him altogether. He took one look at Kyrie standing with her hands clasped, a peculiar necklace around her neck and decided she would be a bother.

The rejected crowd mulled about in the limited space of the front office, waiting. It was not long after the silence became uncomfortable that the bathroom door came springing back open and Nero emerged first, his arm back in the sling and ready to dismiss any questions concerning his well being. No one was gladder to see him than Kyrie who joined him at his side again. Nero spoke first.

"I'm alright." He glanced down at his arm, huddled against him again. The limb was limp and powerless, feeling very estranged, and his side was mending at its own pace. Dante didn't care to sympathize with him.

Trish came out the bathroom and met Dante's eyes briefly but ferried them away.

Lance cut his eyes across Nero, then back at Dante suspiciously.

"These your kids, Red?"

No one paid him any mind.

Dante leaned casually against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest, awaiting an explanation from anyone of them. Nero seemed desperate and unsettled, darting his eyes around the clutter in the front office as if he was looking for an exit. It was difficult to concentrate with an environment that disarrayed but he managed to find peace amidst his mental chaos and speak.

"Dante, I need your help."

"What the hell happened to you?" Dante returned.

Nero paused a moment, wondering if Dante had heard him pleading for help at all or if he was too laissez-faire when he'd said it. Nero tried again.

"We didn't know where else to go."

"You really did a number on yourself, kid."

Again, Nero was stunned. "Dante, that was then, this is now. I dunno if I can keep doing this alone—"

"Were you responsible for that blast, or—"

"Enough already! Are you gonna help us or drill me with questions all night?"

Dante decided that Nero was too serious to humor him, so he apologized in his special way, "Fine," and held out his palm as though he was expecting something. Nero stared at it quizzically.

"Either you peak my interest, or you pay me. And the only woman allowed on missions is Trish, so _she_ needs to go home if I'm gonna be involved." He pointed finger at Kyrie rudely.

"Forget it," Nero spat, in such a way that hinted it was not open for discussion or debate.

"Dante's right," Trish backed coolly. "She'll be a hindrance."

Nero pulled Kyrie behind him as if protecting her from their words. "Listen! I'm not going anywhere without her." Nero had turned fierce at the mention of leaving Kyrie behind. He guarded her like a possessive dog and she trailed behind him quietly, compliantly. It was obvious that she felt out of place among this devilish group and Lance, the uninvolved spectator, perching on his chair with his feet atop the desk, listening intently.

Dante shook his head, astounded at Nero's resilience and dedication. "Nero, really. Give me one good reason why you'd drag her along."

Nero took Kyrie by the hand tightly, a gesture that seemed to signal admittance she was not ready for. They shot apprehensive glances at one another in a silent conversation, ending with Kyrie's uncertain but permissive nod. Nero turned to face Dante again but did not meet his eyes.

"She's pregnant," he confessed to an immediately stunned audience.

_______

Dante's mouth loosened, darting his eyes from Nero-embarrassed, Kyrie-ashamed, Trish-surprised, to Lance- grinning- and back again. When none of them offered to break the silence, Dante blinked from his shock- induced trance and true to character released a deeply amused chuckle that infected Trish and subsequently Lance. The subjects of their mockery looked as if the foundation they were standing on was about to crumble from beneath them.

"Well that," Dante started, trying to stifle a laugh and spare them any further embarrassment, "complicates things."

Nero felt Kyrie's face pressing into his sleeve. It didn't take long for her tears to moisten the fabric and reawaken his anger.

"This isn't anything I've done!" Nero barked defensively, for now ignoring the comfort she was seeking.

Dante settled back against the frame and smirked with the dying laughter. "Woah. As much as this sucks, you need to man up to your responsibilities, kid."

Fed up, Nero least expected this type of prosecution and mockery from his allies. "I'm not the father!" He screamed, loud enough to silence them, loud enough to startle Kyrie and exaggerate his frustration and remind them of the seriousness of the situation.

"We don't know what's to become of it, him, her—whatever, but Kyrie wants to keep it and I've got to get her away from _them_. I didn't want to say because it's none of your business to know, but Sanctus insured the rebirth of another Savior through her and despite that, where _ever_ I go, she goes."

Another Savior? Whatever twisted misconceptions of the savior or _a_ savior the Order of the Sword had should have been shattered with the felled statue of the aforementioned. Sanctus' thirst for immortality and a utopian worship destroyed lives, a city and the misplaced hopes and faiths of a spiritually misled mass of people worshiping a demon as a god. The unborn child was already iconic. Demigod.

A vessel of evil or a capacitor of good? The recycled ideology of a madman, predestined to rise up and be evil or swayed by a naïve young mother to beat all odds and be saintly? Kyrie was better off dead. Dead because even though Sanctus and The Order blindly typified what they sought to destroy, he was no ally to the legions of the underworld. She was better off dead because her baby was a potential threat to both sides of the fence. Frankly, and unfortunately, Dante had to agree.

Dante seemed to have lost his sense of humor immediately. His light-hearted expression melted into one grave and frightening, with his eyes cold and pointed at Kyrie. He did not have to voice his stance on the situation. He got up suddenly in a gesture that set Nero on guard again, and he had released Blue Rose from his holster and jabbed it in Dante's chest daringly before he took another step.

"Don't move," he instructed, the wavier of panic in his voice conflicting his poise of calm. He urged Kyrie behind him again.

Trish made a move to intervene but Dante dismissed her with a glance.

Undaunted, Dante pressed forward, risking a bullet to the chest he hoped would not come, and wooed Kyrie out from behind her protector with a gentle tug on the arm. She stumbled toward him, her cheeks stained with tears and allowed him to tighten her clothes around her stomach despite him being forward, revealing a slight but irrefutable lump. Dante pressed his hand against her firmly and glared at Nero until he finally subdued and put down his gun.

To Kyrie he said, "Babe, you may very well be the mother of devastation."

She placed her delicate hand atop his. "Or of peace," she countered.

"Are you sure this isn't his?" He gestured off at Nero with his head. The response was in unison.

"Yes."

"Are you sure you want to keep it?" That came from Trish, finally breaking her silence.

Kyrie responded alone this time. "Yes."

"Kyrie, you're making a mistake…" Dante warned.

Lance popped up far faster than any of them could have imagined him moving, throwing back the chair he was sitting in and dragging piles of paper off his desk. He seemed in a panic when he hobbled back and darted his eyes around the room thirstily. He found what he was looking for taped under the desk, a double- barreled shotgun, and pointed it carelessly at Kyrie. The room tensed when Nero shifted his focus from Dante to Lance, again urging Kyrie behind him.

"Call off your junk yard dog," Nero growled to Trish, squaring off against Lance.

Lance was not phased. "Kyrie? That's an expensive name, baby girl." He glared down the sight, willing to shoot through Nero to hit his target.

"I'll put his crippled ass out of his misery, I swear it!" Nero spat.

Trish, uninvolved and seemingly apathetic, looked to Dante for instruction. Dante folded his arms across his chest calmly and tried to be the conflict mediator.

"How did you know about the offer, Lance?" He already knew the answer.

"What offer?!" Nero demanded.

Lance began to slowly circle around the desk in front of him in order to line up Kyrie but Nero circled with him.

He answered as he rounded, never taking his eyes off his target. "I read your mail, remember? And if you won't do your job, I will."

Laced with confusion, Nero hesitated momentarily to turn his aggression toward Dante but thought against it. He only cut his eyes at him viscously.

"What the hell is he talking about?!"

"Nero, please!" Kyrie squealed.

Lance sucked in a volume of air and responded in a dying hiss. "Your fame precedes you, kiddo. There's been a price on her head two weeks now. Offer after offer been coming through Red's mail." There was a quick pause while he refilled his lungs. "Figured I'd just haul her carcass off to the highest bidder. What's it gonna be, Red? Your kill or mine?"

Dante lifted a hand to Lance and gestured for him to lower his weapon. "Lance, I'm pleading with your humanity not to shoot a pregnant girl and with your sanity; there are three devils in this room to contend with and your gun isn't loaded."

Lance balked at this information and took a moment to verify the truth. He clicked open the gun and stared down into empty chambers with a distraught expression. Too uncouth to be embarrassed, he set the gun down gingerly atop the desk and retreated into himself again, harmless. The tension settled immediately with a _whoosh_ of released breath. Dante didn't realize he was holding his.

Nero turned to face Dante again, disappointment and distrust painted on his face.

"You're just like _them._"

"And who is _them?_"

Trish responded from her post at the front window, her first time shifting position since leaving the bathroom, now suddenly engrossed in the goings on outside, "_Them."_

She backed away from the window slowly as Alastor sent a little sizzle down Dante's spine. When Dante turned to the window to look out, there was the ghostly vacant glare of a Bianco looking in, and several reflecting suits of armor dotting the yard outside.

Note: Man, i'm still so confused. Time to clear this shit up in C3. If there is a C3.


	3. A Sliver of Peace

Note: I do everything in an induced state. Dreadfully obvious, i know. Thank you for your encouragement (Flowing Tears, Anon, Maite). Still pawing about in the dark with this. Forgive me. I need more help than you can give. Not edited.

"Lance, do you have a back door?" Dante asked casually, backing away from the window.

"No, why?"

Nero took his arm down from the sling, turning to Kyrie with instruction. "Go hide in the bathroom." He would settle his differences with Dante later; drawing swords against him was a pending situation.

"Heh." Dante marveled at her obedience when she darted past. "It might have been safer outside."

"Why?!" Lance insisted, voice rising in suspicion. He somehow felt he should have scampered into the bathroom behind Kyrie.

The mischievous smirk on Dante's face did not comfort him. The expected thrust of the javelin came piercing through the front window, to which Dante quite casually parried and drug in the unfortunate Bianco, misting him in a flurry of glass shards and splintered wood.

"'Cause I'm bringing the party inside!"

Lance fired up immediately, aghast. Dante would crumble his empire. "You son of a bitch!" Suddenly he was pawing around in his organized mess for the box of shells he knew was hidden there among the withering stacks of papers.

"Get out while you can," Trish warned, snaking Ebony and Ivory from Dante's holsters.

"If it's all the same to you," Lance returned, suddenly realizing he'd been using the box of ammunition to stabilize the left leg of his desk, "I'll stay here and hold down the fort."

The moment the Bianco met its untimely end, Nero's arm sprang to life, glowing like an LED light. Despite the toll his body had taken, he would rather not offer a fight but oblige one, especially in the wake of Dante's show- boating and flair. He had one kill under his belt already and had yet to draw his sword. There was no way, he decided, revving up Red Queen, that Dante would best him. The shattered glass became a portal of invitation.

Flashes of red and blue sliced through the endless demons surging into the edifice, the music of steel on steel, the interlude of shotgun blasts, the rhythm of Ebony and Ivory ripping through resistance in a nocturnal symphony framing the chaos. A Curious Acquisition was splitting open like an overripe fruit. In a lock and key style the duo had mastered in a partnership where both parties were often active in offense, Dante stood in front of Trish, and she could be behind him firing off Ebony and Ivory with sharp shooting accuracy. No matter what style Dante resolved, she could maneuver about him in a devilish synchrony that seemed choreographed, striking her target without fail. To Dante, the orgasmic difference from warring and making love to a woman blurred.

For Nero, the fight had always been a necessity. He fought indirectly for The Holy Knights in the name of Scantus, for the glory of Sparda. Lance's indiscriminate buck- shots whistled by his ears, a narrow miss. He couldn't tell if it was meant for him, the Bianco behind him, or Dante. He shot out the Devil Bringer, satisfied with whatever prize he quarried, demolished the minion before it finished nearing him.

He had fought to prove himself; he was more than a devilish spectacle with a curious attachment. He ducked Alastor's ricocheting vortex, an effective room clearer that settled pointedly in the crook of Dante's awaiting palm. And now he was fighting to keep Kyrie and her baby safe, a self-appointed task that proved too trying for the adolescent Devil, raging within himself to suppress the demon he did not want to summon. But what made Dante happiest seemed to frustrate Nero into an uncontrollable fury that leveled Fortuna during his tempest. With every slash of his blade, the entity in his arm crept slowly out of its dark chasm and polluted Nero with a power that could not be reckoned with.

"Get ready."

The silvery caution amidst the bedlam managed to reach Dante despite his preoccupation with predicting where the next foe would come from; the gaping hole in the ceiling, the shot-out front screen door, or the entire side panel where Lance's bookcases used to be. From the corner of his eyes, Nero, as it seemed, was too saintly to look upon. Trish was articulating in ballistics gel. Her fluid movements suddenly became sluggish and painfully obvious, as if time was coming to a stand still. And Lance, still lazily anchored in his desk chair, felt enlightened at his sudden ability to see the traveled path of shrapnel ejected from the barrel of his shotgun.

When Nero lifted the Devil Bringer, every hair in the vicinity rose like a conducted orchestra. Friend and foe alike became weightless. Outside, the remaining hellions clamoring about trying to get in got swept up, and when Nero swung around the Red Queen, a blaze of fire circled out from the edge of the sword and consumed every devil within its limitless radius. This seemed to rectify the time glitch. Dante plummeted back to the ground like a meteor under the weight he carried, Trish crumbled next to him, and Lance shot back and out from his desk chair finally, end on end until friction stopped his momentum. Again, the city lights flickered and shut off in a domino effect. Dante fluttered open his eyes when he felt rain pelting his face like hail, but it was only when his lips parted that he realized he was in a blood storm.

A cloud of black smoke hovered over Crux and marked the once location of A Curious Acquisition, now a pile of rubble and debris, sizzling out in the damp night air. Lance stood leaning, a frown as heavy as Dante's burden on his face, watching his establishment fizz out. His place was admittedly as flammable as gasoline with his queer collection of books and papers of perplexing mathematics. Once the fire caught it spread like the plague and in moments it was uncontrollable and the little building was beyond rescue. Had it not been for the red rain it might have still been burning.

Dante sat up, head whirling. When he could focus, Lance—slightly charred, hair frizzed, looming, heavily scarred, slightly handicapped, breathing like a bellows— had started toward him with determination, his metal braces making about as much racquet as his breathing. By the time he had hobbled over to Dante, he was bitching already.

"Red, Red, Oh Red." He pointed an accusing finger at Dante and fired off a barrage of swear words. "You owe me! Look at my place!" He presented the ruins with an open palm. Dante stared with lackluster interest at Lance's pile of ash. The only thing left intact were the four walls barring Kyrie in the bathroom. The wallpaper around the door was still burning out and Nero looked as good as dead laying flat in front the door, mouth agape, hand still clutched around Red Queen.

"What?!" Dante screamed. His ears were ringing like church bells. He nudged Trish with his tingling foot to get her attention. Lance was still screaming, although he couldn't hear himself.

"You owe me!"

_________

Dante and his peculiar entourage sliced through the crowd of raving twenty-something year olds, barely a notice in the ecstasy-induced hysteria. Had they been sober, the blood soaked quartet, heavily armed, the leader a half a head above most would've caught the attention of more than just the club owner. Dante could hear his screams of protest piercing through the blazing techno music before he even reached the bar. Enzo's round face was painted in a flash of multi color lights, raging just as violently as the unnecessarily loud music reverberating from pillar to post.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Enzo grabbed a hand full of his curly black hair and gave it firm tug in frustration.

"Dante, Dante, _please._" He was ignoring the fact that Dante was already waving off whatever he had to say. "You can't bring these guys in here! What the fuck are you tryin' to do to me?"

Dante leaned over the bar and gripped a handful of the tacky tracksuit jacket Enzo was sporting and brought him dangerously close to his bloodied face. He wasn't about to compete with the music.

"Room keys."

Trish, tainted red, appeared next to Dante and stretched out an expecting palm.

Enzo nodded politely to her. "Trish!" He greeted, dropping his keys into her hand. He glanced over Dante's shoulder at Nero and Kyrie, huddled together, young, relationally inexperienced and absorbed in one another.

"Heh. What kinda party you got going on here, D?" He grinned nervously.

Dante dropped his collar and turned away in a huff, following Trish's blonde trail through the club.

"I want you guys outta there by morning! I fuckin' mean it, Dante!"

Enzo's fury seemed to settle when he peered up at the frightened little red head that managed to maintain her manners with a polite greeting he did not return.

The studio above the club was poorly lit and poorly decorated, gross yellow carpet peeling away from the walls and sloppily plastered patches behind Enzo's headboard. Kyrie stood board still in the center of the room, too disgusted to touch any of Enzo's things while Dante went around kicking laundry into a pile and pushing aside spare change and condoms from the bureau top to make space for his holster. It smelled like mold, the air was set too low, and the murmur of music from downstairs rattled every loose screw and dish in the kitchen.

"Trish, you feel like playing sniper tonight?" Dante offered her a box of 45mm hollow points and Enzo's silenced silver baller.

She slid a finger through the loop of the trigger guard carelessly. "See me outside."

"Fuck," Dante mumbled.

"No, actually," she returned, slipping out the sliding glass door onto the roof.

Kyrie flushed with embarrassment at her innuendo and disappeared into the bathroom to get cleaned up. A severely fatigued Nero immediately took his post in front of the door, cradling his right arm that had again gone dark with inactivity.

Dante seemed to take offense to his defensive position. "What do you think I'm gonna do to her?"

Nero didn't answer him. He turned his face away with a sigh and pressed up against the bathroom door, eyes half slanted.

With Lance sitting reluctantly en guarde at Devil Never Cry—and sitting was all Dante hoped he was doing— and peace the ambiance of the moment, perhaps it was time to go outside and face the music. He could see her straddling the rooftop, hair flagging in the wind, seemingly inattentive but always intently focused on the task at hand. Dante pressed his face into the cool glass of the sliding door and exhaled heavily, fogging up the streaky glass. He finally worked up enough pluck to join her outside.

"You know I don't want to do this with you." He started, perching a leg up on the siding next to her. It was a cool, autumn night, large full moon lighting up the twinkling metropolis below. He wished he could've savored the evening indoors unaware and detangled from the sudden madness Nero had dragged him in. He also wondered if anyone would look up if he spit over the edge.

"If you don't want to do this now, then when?"

"Not now, not ever."

She leaned back, dangling a leg off the side carelessly. "Lady died four weeks ago, you just found out tonight. Look at you. You haven't said a word about it."

"How does this concern you?" He snapped.

When she didn't respond, he continued, defensively. She wasn't being fair. In her silence she said so much. "And so what? It was bound to happen eventually, right? I haven't had time to face it, have it?" He made a grand gesture toward the studio behind them, implying blame.

"You have time now."

He dismissed the thought with a flick of his wrist.

Finally, she looked over her shoulder at him. "This is what I'm talking about. You're constantly disassociating yourself from your humanity. You slip further and further away into this chasm, an underpaid sociopath. In your world, you're the only one who exists."

"Humph."

"This is the last one," she said sternly, destroying any hopes of a future partnership.

Though he was burning up inside, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of reacting to what she'd just said. He swallowed hard, accepting the demise of a relationship he had been dodging for some time now. It barely loosened the tightness in his throat. Dante pushed off from the side and started back into the room, talking to himself.

"She leaves, she comes back, she leaves, she comes back. What's the point? For all is vanity and grasping for the wind. It does not give me peace."

"Nothing gives you peace, Dante," she taunted, listening to the sliding doors roll shut, putting an abrupt end to their brief conversation.

Inside, Nero jumped up from his slumber against the wall and waved Blue Rose around in a daze. Dante didn't react.

Nero could sense some discomfort on Dante's part immediately as he took a slow seat on the corner of Enzo's bed. Nero smirked, despite himself.

"You're in trouble, huh?" It was rhetorical.

Entranced, Dante pointed at his poorly concealed arm, redirecting the path their conversation would've taken. "Some trick you got there."

Nero's smirk worked its way into a frown. "I get mad, it gets mad."

Dante nodded vaguely at the functional simplicity of it all.

"If you try and hurt her, I'll—"

"_Seriously_, kid? She'd be dead by now if I really wanted to kill her. Them. Whatever. I want to tell you something," Dante started. He sounded faintly parental. "I get a hundred calls a week asking me to kill this person and that. I pass up oodles of money because I listen to what's left of my moral compass. Just 'cause some fanatics from Fortuna want her dead, doesn't mean I'm gonna up and shoot her while she's in the can."

His admittance seemed to settle Nero a bit. He sat up, readjusting his sling. "Did you think about doing it?" He asked.

Dante's reply was hardly a comfort and it came too quickly to be fabricated. "Yeah, I did." He made a gun out of his forefinger and thumb, pointed it at Nero. "Bang. No more wondering if this kid's gonna fall into wrong hands. No more waiting to see if I could have prevented the rise of a tyrant. Everyone's happy…'cept you."

Nero fell silent, cradling the over sized gun in his hand. "…Well. Why don't you?"

"Exceptional circumstances. Me. You." He rose up when the bathroom door opened up and Kyrie stepped out, joining Nero on the floor and burrowing under his arms.

"Lady," he admitted, stepping over the pair of turtledoves and closing the bathroom door behind him.

_________

Dante splashed handfuls of cool water over his face, balled up a few dozen sheets of toilet paper and dried off the bloody water dripping down his chin. He dabbed again and again at his face, but he couldn't keep up with the water pouring out of his eyes. Against all logic and reasoning, he was going to help Kyrie and Nero. Lady was dead and Trish was leaving him again. By the time he realized he had shards of toilet paper crumbling in his hands, the brown roll had one square glued to it. Burying his face behind his hands was all he could do to muffle the sound of his sobbing.

He was in no state to be hero, saviour, guadian. Soon he would be betrayer, destroyer, enemy.


	4. Nill

Note: This was a very difficult chapter to write for some reason. I dont think the others will be much better. Thanks again

It had been thirty frustrating minutes of aimless deliberation where all of Dante's suggestions were ignored, Kyrie's contributions were dismissed, Trish had very little to offer and Nero mentioned nothing of value. Where could Kyrie go to be safe? How would they get her there? How did the Order keep track of them? Anxious to move on, Trish was paying more attention to the all too inviting sliding glass doors and Nero was trying to conceal his fatigue with constant activity, presently busy trying to knife off the Holy Knight insignia on the sleeve of his hooded jacket.

"We've been here too long," Nero suddenly announced, brushing off the threads on his sleeve. He got up with a strain, tired of aimless chatter, and tuned to face the group to broadcast his departure.

"We'll take it from here," he said, turning toward the door. He offered Kyrie his hand as he turned. Kyrie hesitated; her sullen faced champion could barely stand on his own far less be able to protect her without help. He was disheveled, drained, option less, direction less, and stubborn. Dante and Trish had yet to be the help they were seeking but at least they were allies.

Dante crossed his arms, awaiting Kyrie's decision, a hesitation that seemed like forever to the impatient young devil with his arm lingering. When Kyrie did not act, Dante stepped forward and pushed Nero's hand away.

"Looks like your girlfriend likes it here."

Trish smirked. Nero retreated, for the first time feeling the sting of Kyrie's refusal.

Dante to Kyrie, "It would make my life a lot easier to make you a memory," he admitted, taking her by the hand and drawing her near to him, an action Nero didn't appreciate.

She froze when his hand covered the delicate rise of her stomach, drawing in a sharp breath at his touch. He was gentle, caressing the potential inside of her as if it would crumble under the weight of his fingertips. Nothing could be more precious to Dante, a side of tenderness he would never admit to, than the hope that existed in a human pregnancy. The sour nature of man was innate, a trait formed at the foundation of existence but it was not a marriage he was doomed to. What made Virgil made Dante, what made Cain made Abel; hate and prejudice are learned, salvation is earned.

"You're making a mistake," Dante affirmed, "But it's the same mistake my mother made." He moved away from her upon sensing her discomfort and she scampered back to Nero who was not surprisingly glaring contemptuously at Dante. His mouth opened and shut, speechless.

"There isn't enough praise to make me saintly," he said, matter-of- fact, winking at Nero. Trish came forward, Dante's holster draped over her shoulder. "I agree with Nero, let's keep moving." She brushed past Dante purposefully on her way out the door, sending him a quick approving glance over her shoulder.

In tow of her protectors, Kyrie couldn't shake the memory of Dante's intrusive touch. It would stay with her because although Nero defended her decision to keep the baby, he had never ventured to nourish her with intimate touches.

_____________

There is a large Gothic clock tower skirting the sea in Crux. It exists several stories above a set of tracks where a costly diesel locomotive shoots from its cavernous arches, bows out into the sea for a rapid but picturesque journey into the neighboring metropolis hundreds of miles away. A tourist attraction at Crux's Chambre Station, constantly bustling with life and activity, economically fruitful and a "stupid fucking idea," Nero eloquently versed, although decidedly faster than the limited seating of his El Camino, now puffing and tooting as much as the train.

No one would notice the lavatory window smashed in with the rear compartment locked and at this hour. And no one seemed more excited to enjoy a stolen ride than Kyrie, enthralled by the old world charm and romanticism of rail guided travel. She pressed against the window the moment the train moved off, soaking up the calming beauty of Crux-Faire River's aquatic surface, as mysteriously dark as the star studded sky above.

Nero, but a seat behind her inhaling an apple and PB&J sandwich he found zip-locked under his seat, could barely eat with his eyes open. Trish managed to find conversation with Kyrie and Dante, finally taking a seat apart from the entourage, was asleep before his head hit the backrest. Facing hordes of Mephistopheles, any and all manifestations of evil, the undead and the living, and Dante still slept like a child. Even in his slumber he was always ready to rise and fill his duty. A smug and overconfident grin hid his crumbling interior. Tonight, his soul was heavy. Like any man, Dante grew weary of loss. If there was nothing to die for, he supposed, then there was no point in living. He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, the dim lighting in the overhead flicking like a dying bulb, the steady hum of the train easing over the tracks and soothing them with its droning lullaby. He glanced over at the back of Trish's head and wondered if he could have prevented this pending loss.

He got up, making his way toward her with the aid of the aisle seats. When he made it over he touched her shoulder for attention gently, barely parting his lips to deliver a message he had not prepared when Nero's faintly glowing blue arm caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Nero was sprawled out in the seat, Devil Bringer lying limping across his lap tangled in the bloody sling. Mouth ajar, he was too busy snoring to pay any mind to the caprice of his arm.

Dante tensed, suddenly darting his eyes from window to window to find the source. Trish grabbed Kyrie's arm and ushered her away from the window, ripping her from the ever-elusive sleep they so desperately craved. Nero jumped up.

"What's wrong?!"

"I'm kinda tired of these metal angels." Dante was half expecting to see another javelin, if not several, jamming into the compartment like a pin cushion any minute now. He motioned for Kyrie to stay low.

The wings that shot by the windows were unfamiliar to Dante, but to Nero and Kyrie, all too accustomed to the transformation the Holy Knights went through after the Ascension Ceremony, were reminded of Credo, Agnus, and Sanctus in their most powerful forms.

The Order meant business.

Outside they swarmed, keeping pace with the racing locomotive snaking just above the river, streaking by each compartment just long enough to peek inside for their prize. Dante reached up casually and smashed the flickering bulb with the butt of his gun, immediately blanketing them in darkness. A blazing white shield sliced into the compartment with ease, splitting open the cabin and sending a tremor through the train. It rocked dangerously on impact, throwing them about like marbles in a drawer. Screams of surprise from the other passengers joined them, alerting Trish to her duties. She would avoid the fight for now, and somehow disconnect the compartments. Gusts of wind ripped through the open cabin stirred them about in a blind whirl.

Nero shot out of the opening, ready, launching the Red Queen at the offending Knight unexpectedly. It jammed into it and sent it spiraling out of the sky. Satisfied, Nero pulled himself onto the roof, but was ill prepared to resist the raging winds of the train sucking him backwards and dragging him across the top. He dug the Devil Bringer into the metal siding to slow himself down, and hanging by this alone, could only resort to frantically firing off Blue Rose at any Knight that came too close as he flagged off the rear.

Dante boosted Trish outside, and she soared with a simple grace out and over the top, disappearing between compartments in a blink. When Dante clamored out, a burning sword ripped through his back, plucked him out like a grape from the bunch and launched him back and off the train, a ribbon of blood splattering across the tracks. Nero watched him whisk by in a blur, his own hair stinging against his face like ants. In the torrent of wind, he could barely keep his eyes open.

Trish, lodged between compartments, was astonished to find the connecting bridge too narrow to accommodate maneuvering. Less classy than she had planned, she resorted to firing off several ricocheting shots until the morphed steel was too weak to resist the downward thrust of her kick. The moment the compartments separated, she shot back and away from the still rampaging cabin with the rest of the train, watching the angelic Knights hovering about the detached compartment, fading slowly as she zipped away helplessly in the opposite direction.

Each moment overlapped, the separating compartments, the violent blasts of Blue Rose, and suddenly, the screeching slow of steel wheels upon the tracks, and even more suddenly, the Knight that descended upon the tracks like lightening. Falling short in front of the speeding cabin, when the renegade section was within arms length a massive blade drove down the center with ease, bringing it to an abrupt stop and splitting it open in two perfect halves. The impact was so violently unexpected, Nero's grasp failed and shot him forward like a bullet. Kyrie now, buried under the seat, found herself hanging over the side of the track and holding onto the seat least she fall into the dark waters below.

When Dante landed hard on the tracks, he couldn't stop momentum from sending him spiraling over and over, bested by the new foe before he could even react. His head was still tumbling when he stopped moving. By the time he sat up, he was several miles away from the action, and Kyrie was over the side of the tracks, hysterical.

"Shit!" No time to recover. If he couldn't shake off this trauma and get to Kyrie before she got carried off they'd probably never find her again.

"Kyrie!" He screamed, stumbling along the tracks. He couldn't go too long without his foot slipping through the track and slowing him up.

"Kyrie! Hang on!"

Her frightened screeches got louder as he neared, picking up the pace with each thrust forward. It would be impossible to cover that much ground before she was snatched up. "Neeeerrrrrrrrooooo!!!!" Her cries were desperate, frantic.

"Kyrie, I'm coming!" Dante tried to comfort her from a distance, but he doubted she could hear anything other than herself, her rising pitch piercing through the night. He leapt forward, drawing Alastor and took aim at the Knight from still a great distance away. Alastor took flight, and a defenseless Dante raged on to face the flock of approaching Knights. No time for a confrontation either; the ducked, tumbled, evaded, narrowly missed and accepted the swords tearing into his flesh as they zipped by the determined devil in a swarm.

Alastor met its target as expected, ripping the Knight from the air in a blink. By the time he got to the mangled cabin, Kyrie had been reduced to a one-arm dangle and Dante was afraid his weight would shift the distorted metal and send them both into the water.

"Hang on, baby, I'm almost there." He whispered, carefully climbing over the seat. By the time he made it over it _had _shifted, almost completely vertical and suddenly his feet slipped and he was sitting on his haunches on a seat back, trying not to propel forward.

Kyrie's face was wet with frightened tears and her arm was wavering in a strain to maintain her rapidly weakening grip.

"Dante! Please!" She sobbed.

"Hang on, hang on."

He slithered down to the next seat, the next, three rows shy of being within reach. A notion came to him that he would not make it in time, but he ignored his negativity and pushed on, swaying the groaning compartment with every inch forward.

"Look up at me Kyrie! I'm almost there!" One more seat. He anchored behind it, drenched with sweat, reached out a hand that fell too short. All of a sudden, the dangling half swayed left onto the tracks, Kyrie went right and the little grip she had left gave way.

"Kyrie!"

He shot forward in desperation, managing to grab only the suspended necklace around her neck, which broke apart. In a horror, he watched her slip away and free fall toward the water, her frightened face fading with the distance.

"Kyrie!!"

Only a splash returned to him.

Dante's face was twisted in shock, completely aghast that he had allowed her to literally slip through his fingers. Still desperate, he called to her again. Nothing.

When he glanced up Alastor was spiraling back up to him. That he caught without thinking.

"Damn…" He whispered, defeated.

A flash of blue fingers wrapped around him and dragged him back up to the tracks. Nero was a disastrous pulp crawling along the side rail but he still managed to set him down safely.

He gripped hold of Dante's boots, trying to pull himself up.

"Dante…did you get her? I'm sorry, I—I couldn't get…"

Dante grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him up to his knees. "Nero…" He started, not surprisingly, at a complete loss of words. Even if he could find the words, admitting that Kyrie just plummeted probably to her death one hundred feet beneath the tracks wouldn't come eloquently enough. He found Nero's hand, dropped the broken necklace into his palm, knowing that it would be self-explanatory. He cradled the necklace in disbelief that Kyrie was not attached to it. His eyes brimmed with tears.

"She's gone…"

Nero's face crumbled instantly.

Above, the Knights, untethered by this untimely loss, circled the two like vultures, an attack eminent. Dante helped him to his feet, but when he let go Nero slumped back onto his knees.

"Kid, I don't mean to be insensitive, but if you could pull off that fancy trick right now it'd be _great_."

It was insensitive. Nero, destroyed, was reduced to a sobbing ball at Dante's feet, too distraught to manage the situation at hand.


	5. Frenimies

Note: This "story" is going where, exactly? I have story in quotes because im not really telling one, im just describing events. This work simply exists. Yet somehow you guys are still punishing yourselves reading it. Maite, it really means something that you, with 100 plus readers, find the time to drop me a line and still crank out one incredible chapter after another. Flowing Tears, imagine my surprise to hear you had thrown me a referral. I appreciate you most. And my new alphanumerical friend Db-4649-002, thank you and welcome.

Frenimies

"Nero, get up." Dante's eyes were to the sky. He glanced down at him, shoulders heaving and head hung, useless. He would go it alone.

Preemptive, he sprang up from the tracks and latched onto the leg of a passing Knight. He tore Alastor through its wings, grounding it, skewered it and launched it back into the sky. He dismissed another with a casual block, ejected its sword as it passed by. Two down. He welcomed another attack, accepting the sword that eased into him, sending him to his knees.

Nero got up on his own, in a tearful daze, watching the blurry red devil streak toward him and on past, impaling the Knight just behind him. Ebony and Ivory exploded into it, nearly deafening him.

"Pay attention!" He warned, feeling him whisk by in a breeze.

Dante carried on with a sadistic enjoyment Nero couldn't stand. As if he hadn't just dropped Kyrie into the dark waters below. Selfish. Impious. Inconsiderate. Careless. And Kyrie had to be the one to die?

Hate. It filled him up so readily and closed his fingers around his sword.

The ascended Knights were a substantially challenging lot; exceptionally fast, tireless and precise with a fatal determination. If Dante wasted a moment blinking there was one upon him, seizing the opportunity. He could dodge, block, counter and strike in the same breath, it seemed, all the while firing off Ebony and Ivory without cease. But eventually, as he cut down the numbers, the intimidated few hung back reluctantly. When their unanimous decision to retreat left him standing on the gnarled and disfigured train tacks, he least expected a sword to be jutting out from under his throat. He gagged violently, slamming a palm onto the tip and ejecting it right back out of his chest. When he whirled around to face the attacker, Nero was poised and ready, offering him a challenge with an unforgiving glare.

The Devil Bringer shot out, whisked Dante off his feet and drew him into the Red Queen a second time, then a third and so on it continued in a combination of fury until Nero dismissed him violently with a backhand swing. Dante sailed back and righted himself before landing, settling gracefully upon the tracks much to Nero's chagrin. A shredded Dante hid his annoyance behind surrendered hands instead submitting to understanding and not retaliation.

He cleared his throat. "Kid. I'm not your enemy."

Nero responded by flicking a splatter of blood from the Red Queen onto Dante's face.

A flash of disdain went through Dante's eyes but he settled immediately into a difficult smirk.

"You let her fall!"

"I didn't mean to…"

"Bullshit! You wanted this!"

The sword came slicing toward him again and fell short, caught between Dante's palms. Nero pulled back, splitting his hands and thrust forward again, a fluid motion that Dante casually redirected, sending the young devil stumbling past.

"You need to relax!"

Nero recovered quickly, turned to have another go at Dante. While Nero was aggressively chopping away at him, lacking the skill and grace Dante had met once before, it became obvious that Nero was attacking from senseless emotion. His method was as effective as a frustrated child pounding little fists onto an older sibling or parent in a tantrum. He was crying and swinging blindly, and Dante was casually parrying and blocking off with little effort.

Time to put an end to this pitiable display, Dante decided. The next downward strike Dante caught again, bare- handed and dropped Alastor onto the tracks.

"Nero." He whirled him around and snaked an arm under his neck to submit him, taking a long step backward to throw him off balance. In three simple movements Nero was gagging under Dante's crushing arm, struggling wildly to break free.

"Nero, I'm sorry!"

He threw up a hand to grab at Dante's hair but he lunged his head back to escape the desperate attempt.

"Stop it." His choke tightened, shy of completely rendering him unconscious, and Dante wondered if he would have to knock him out to get him to stop thrashing like a wild man. He was growling and tearing at him like a badger, rivers of tears running down his cheeks when his eyes clicked on like headlights.

"Let me go!"

Instinctively, Dante withdrew his arm to scramble away from Nero's oncoming Devil Trigger. He had barely let go when the blinding orb of energy burst out from Nero. A mirage of distorted molecules rippled out into the water and parted it down to the sand bed, trickling out until it skipped across the water surface and resided into the night. When the parted waters united in a thunderous clap, a turbulent wave kicked up and carried toward the shores of the metropolis in the distance, washing away any memory that might have been in it.

_________________________

When Kyrie plummeted into the water, she broke open the surface feet first and sloppily, her right ankle taking the brunt. Downward she drove until her conservative attire fanned open like a parachute and inverted over her face, tangling her in confusion. She thrashed desperately, pawing away and fighting to break water or find an end to her dress tails.

It didn't take long for the separated compartments to distance themselves from one another. The instant the connecting bridges parted, Trish shot out and away from the action, finding herself in a predicament she wanted no part in. She had stumbled back, gripping desperately to the side of the train with barely a foothold to anchor her. The whole thing cause such a commotion, any minute now the conductor would be hauling breaks or barging through to the end of the train to investigate. She didn't wait for either. Instead, she pushed off the from the locomotive and soared boldly off the side, jack-knifing into the water. The impact was stunning but negligible, and when she made her way to the surface, nose bleeding, she didn't waste any time swimming back toward the bru-ha-ha.

As she neared, the dangling debris flagging off the side of the crumbled guardrail came into view. The detached compartment had split in half, and the human sized blur dropping into the water had a name.

"Kyrrrrrrrrrriiiiiieeee!!!!!"

That was Dante's voice, she knew. She tried to calling out to him when she got closer to no avail; her voice was drowned out in the incessant blasts of Ebony and Ivory and the forceful grunting of the sword- slinging devil above her. She swam toward the ripples and called out to the jellyfish skirting the water. When she got close enough to grab a hold of Kyrie, she had to do everything in her power not to let the frightened red-head drown her too.

"Kyrie! It's ok, I've got you."

She stopped thrashing when she recognized Trish through matted hair, coughing and hyperventilating.

Trish bunched up the fabric between them and tried to push it away but it kept floating up, making Kyrie's bob difficult. Trish was constantly trying to keep her afloat.

"Are you okay?" Trish asked.

"Gloria!" Kyrie wailed, staring with worry at the blood pouring out of her face. "You're bleeding!" Her own well-being seemed to escape her concern.

"I know…Can you swim?"

It was then that Kyrie noticed her ankle was paining her. She could barely tread water.

"My ankle…"

"Hold on, don't panic, but…" Trish reached down to her waist and began to tear furiously at the excess dressings around her much to Kyrie's embarrassment and distress.

"Hang onto me," Trish instructed.

Kyrie obeyed. "What are we going to do?"

"Swim for shore."

Kyrie's voice rose in panic. "What?! We'll never make it! We'll drown!"

That was a truthful bit of hysteria, Trish had to admit, but at least the twinkling city in the distance was something to hope for. Maybe Nero and Dante would come to their rescue if they didn't move before some shark tasted her blood in the water and came for them first. She barely had time to finish her thought before they got swallowed up in a sudden swell of water, dragging them down into the murky abyss. They got churned and thrashed about when the waves collided again and, barely linking fingers, got swept away in a torrent toward the city.

____________________________

Dante didn't know how he managed not to get swept into the sea when that tsunami kicked up and met them there on the tracks. The water slapped down on them and stapled him onto the tracks, beating him as if he were lying under a waterfall. He didn't think the downpour would ever stop but eventually it dissolved into a mist and he was able to open his eyes.

Nero was seizing in and out of a Devil Trigger, jerking himself about until he settled in a wet heap on the tracks. Dante got up first with a grunt, peeling out of his bleeding trench coat to wring the water out of it. Nero didn't budge.

"Outta your system?" Dante asked, throwing his coat over his arm. He stopped short in front of Nero and nudged him with his foot when he didn't get a response. Nero pushed his foot away and sat up, circling his arms around his knees.

"I failed…" He mumbled.

"No, Nero, you didn't."

"You don't understand," he scowled, dragging his hair away from his face.

Dante scoffed. "What don't I understand?"

"All I had to do was protect her…them…I failed…" His voice broke again and he turned away, suddenly ashamed of himself for showing the emotions Dante seemed to lack.

Dante shook his head. "No, _you_ don't get it. You're talking to a guy who single-handedly corrupted his brother and let his own mother die. And you know what? I didn't do shit about it. You're talking to a guy who's well acquainted with failure. Never making the attempt, idling by when you're needed—that's failure. Get up."

Nero sat silently for a moment, soaking up all Dante had just admitted to. He just blurted out a very intimate detail about his life without batting an eyelash and now Nero wasn't sure if he should react with sympathy or apathy.

"Get up…" He echoed mockingly, "For what?"

"Let's go find your girl."

Nero looked up at him slowly in disbelief.

Dante nodded at him. "Get up." He started off in the other direction without waiting for Nero's reaction, the air of confidence about him luring Nero to his feet.

"We gotta do something about your premature Triggers, kid." He spoke over his shoulder. "That's the difference between you and me. You don't ever have any fun at all."

______________________

Miraculously, Trish and Kyrie managed to surf the wave gently into the polluted waters of the wharf alive, bobbing about between barnacled boats and violently rocking ships. A trail of discarded clothes littered their trail up the beach and into picked doors of the Boater's Warehouse where the two were masked in darkness.

Trish was rummaging through the racks of clothes for a less tacky boating shirt, unavailable, and threw a powder blue button down over the dressing room stall for Kyrie to put on. She hobbled out a moment after in a pair of feminine white shorts and the oversized man's button down rolled up at the sleeves. She was dreadfully uncomfortable, pulling down on her shirt- tails in a failed attempt to hide her slender legs. She was quite pretty, Trish discovered. For once, she appeared the worrisome young woman she hid behind conservative clothing. With a tremendous burden weighing on her it was easy to forget she was still so young and robbed of innocence, sheltered behind lies her entire life.

Trish motioned for her to sit down and prop up her foot so she could have a look at it. She did so quietly, feeling a rush of guilt come upon her. This was a life unaccustomed. Leaving Fortuna, running away with Nero, stealing away on trains and breaking into warehouses didn't seem like something an expectant mother would do to keep her baby safe. Maybe Dante was right—maybe she was better off dead. Maybe things would have been different if the baby wasn't Sanctus'. Maybe, just maybe if it was something she and Nero created out of love and affection, and not forcefully thrust upon her because of her brother's unwavering dedication to The Order. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Any other injuries?" Trish asked without looking up. It was sprained, possibly a hairline fracture.

Kyrie shook her head slowly. Despite a few bruises and the torment of fatigue, she was otherwise fine. Instinctively, her hands found their way to her stomach and covered it gently.

Trish noticed a small scar across her thigh. It added a touch of rebellious color to the plain canvass that was Kyrie. Trish questioned her about it, pretending that she hadn't noticed her crying but it was hard to ignore her erratic breathing.

"Nero." She responded flatly, wiping her eyes.

It was hard for Trish to imagine Nero being anything other than the pathetically doting and lustfully love struck lap dog that he was. Kyrie continued without encouragement.

"It was an accident. He was only trying to protect me. As usual. We were walking outside Fortuna alone when we got attacked…I shouldn't have been out there but I was so angry with Credo about something trivial. He only hurt me when he was unsheathing his sword. It's really my fault he got hurt in the first place. It's always my fault."

Trish didn't have a response for her. She started to wrap her up quickly with some reflective boating tape, the only thing on hand.

"Gloria?"

"Trish," she corrected and reminded her in the same breath.

Kyrie nodded, apologizing softly. "Is he okay this time?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Do you worry about Dante, too?"

"…For other reasons…"

"How will they find us?"

Trish took a seat on the floor by Kyrie's feet and smiled to herself. "It isn't possible to hide from Dante. Just wait."

The four hour wait was not in vain; Dante pushed open the door to the Boater's Warehouse and invited himself inside, Nero in tow, the pales of sunrise hailing from the horizon. It would rain today, but dawn would meet them alive.

Kyrie popped open her eyes and threw off the windbreaker she had used for covers, springing to greet them at the door.

"Nero!" She flew into his arms, nearly knocking him to the floor.

Dante trudged past the embracing couple and stopped short in front of Trish, perched on a sailboat display with guns drawn lazily.

"I gotta piss like a racehorse," he announced. He stumbled forward when Kyrie bulldozed into him and greeted him with a hug from behind.

He peeled her off and turned to face her with a thankful half smile.

"Sorry kid," he apologized for earlier. "You okay?" It was then that he took notice of her new ensemble, and he raised his eyebrows both surprised and impressed. She flushed red, balancing on one leg and wobbling about unsteadily. He turned and made a beeline for the bathroom, found it locked and hurried outside through the backdoor to relieve himself, Trish in tow. He glanced back over his shoulder at her but didn't pardon the stream of urine that shot out into the back parking lot from his post between the door.

"You done good, Trish. How'd you manage to keep that death magnet alive all night?"

"We didn't run into any trouble," she admitted.

"No kidding? I thought for sure we'd be dragging our asses off those tracks. Nothing for hours. And you know what?" He asked, finishing up.

Trish waited for him to continue. "I'm tired." He closed in the door and dropped down in a heap in front of it. Thunder rumbled outside, the skies parted, and it began to rain.

"Those two are a recipe for disaster."

Trish nodded in agreement. "They're not tracking Kyrie. They're tracking Nero."

"Humph." Dante looked up at her. "You wanna tell them, or you gonna make me do it?"

Trish turned her attention to the engrossed young lovers comforting one another with whispered affections and gentle touches. Every scrape on Kyrie was a gaping wound and every tear in Nero's clothes deserved an epic re-telling.

"What difference would it make?" She looked back to him for a suggestion. Dante sighed heavily, raking his fingers into his disheveled hair. It would have been easier to raise the dead than to convince them that they were better off without one another. Now that they were together, it was a matter of time before their bliss was disturbed.

Outside the angels wept for them, their silvery tears shedding from the gray clouds, a sort of gloomy premonition of what was to come, as if they knew the worse was yet to be.


	6. Hope Springs

Note: Sorry-health issues and still not resolved. Computer issues and still not resolved. Gave me some time to figure things out with this. I have a vague idea how it'll end. This chapter ending is for EricDraven, supposing he reads it. You guys still out there?

Where was Lance? Dante hung up the payphone for a third time with an aggravated sigh, digging into his pockets for change. It would be great if Lance could shove Nero's El Camino into a lake somewhere, or think up an alibi in case the authorities made their way back to Devil Never Cry looking for him—a recurrence too common to be coincidence—or even let him know whether or not he had left his wallet on his desk or if in fact he had lost it in the train or back at the Boaters' Warehouse. Surprisingly, the famously irresponsible Lance was unavailable.

At present, the entourage found themselves in Faire, a sleepless city, notorious for its old world charm and quiet racketeering masked by an aristocratic front. Densely populated, it was hopeful that they would be lost in the populace. Still at the Crux-Faire cusp, they had yet to trade wharf side warehouses and rubbish clustered alleyways for contemporary edifices; despite that, it was no less ostentatious, so their lawless activities demanded a discreet nature.

But there was nothing discreet about the three-way argument they had managed to get into, Dante at odds with Trish and Nero at odds with both of them about the next logical move. It wasn't as if the Order's obsequious concocted minions gave them much time to deliberate. If they lingered too long in any one location it was only a matter of time before the confrontation was newsworthy.

Dante threw a red FOR SALE sign from the front window of the '97 twin cabin Silverado onto the ground in the alley. There was no way he was going to pay to use a truck he'd never drive again when he could just steal it. Or "borrow," the term he used to comfort the overly ethical Kyrie, balancing on Nero and shielding herself from the drizzling rain under his donated hoodie. Dante's mood soured considerably; he could only shoot distasteful looks between Nero and Trish who had veered off purpose and into a back and forth verbal combat. Trish was tart and frank, faintly belittling, Nero was snarky and mocking, and Dante could care less to intervene because he did not know how to war fairly and colloquially with words. The subject of the argument had shied off under a stoop awning, pretending not to be affected by the colorful verbiage.

It was interesting that at the heart of this argument, Kyrie's best intentions were still in mind. She was too mild mannered and coy to demand the attention she so desperately needed, not from Nero who unwittingly silenced her by constantly being her voice; not from Trish whose side-ways glances sent so many mixed messages, and certainly not from Dante, with his pet name of 'kid' equating her to a lowly barn animal. She needed rest, she needed food and possibly, medical attention. When she placed her head against the door jam her eyes closed in that same instant, and consciousness slipped from her somehow beyond the notice of her overly attentive protectors.

There was the light drum of rain beating down around her, and yet she was not wet. Alive only in her mind, she began to make sense of her world through sensory cues. There was the hum of a ceiling fan circling above her, the familiar comfort of an inviting bed and, ever so faintly, a dim light just beyond the lightly snoring lump breathing into her neck behind her. She turned to face her company, of course Nero, dead to the world, half-curled in full suit with dirty boots tangled in the sheets. He did not flinch when woke.

She turned to face the pink motel door, unlocked, sitting between a small window with a growling window unit and a very wide one with a pacing shadow on the outside. The muffled sounds of a bickering man and woman echoed into the room. The owners, Trish and Dante she discovered, weren't disagreeing loud enough to make full sense of their conversation. Few words made it to her but it was enough to stir concern. Nero and Kyrie were clear enough, a few times there was an unnamed lady, Dante's slurred swearing, an angry stomp past the widow where his voice rose, and Trish's barely audible replies.

The door swung open unexpectedly and Dante, visibly bothered, managed to remain considerate despite his feelings and not slam the creaky door behind him. Kyrie stifled a gasp and mashed her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. Dante took an immediate seat in the sole chair in front of the window unit and buried his face behind his hands. Kyrie dared to peek at the grieving devil, and when she did, was surprised to find him slumped and defeated, seemingly soaked and dried in his clothes. He was just an arms length away, just a conversation shy of consolation he would never know, so she dared to touch him. Her fingertips barely grazed his knee when his eyes slid up from behind his hands and shot daggers at her. The tearful, pleading eyes she expected were not there. An absent man greeted her, then dissolved into a softness she falsely did not attribute to her gentle beauty and understated charm. The latter, was the real Dante she only suspected existed. He spoke first.

"Did I wake you?"

She slowly withdrew her hand and stared at him with a reverence she recently developed.

"N—no, I—" She stumbled through her thoughts. What was there to say besides, "Thank you."

He gave her a faint nod.

"I know Gloria doesn't really agree with you on a lot. So I'm sorry if I've caused any trouble."

He responded with a correction. "Trish." Then he sat up, cleared his throat and pulled up his sleeve to glance at his watch. "You let me worry about Gloria." He gestured off to the bathroom.

"Get presentable. We're going somewhere this time."

She nodded obediently and scurried off to the bathroom to wash the sleep out of her eyes. Dante took the opportunity to dig into his coat pocket for an amber bottle of prescription pills he tried to discreetly pop into his mouth as the bathroom door shut.

"I didn't take you for a pill-popper," came Nero's grizzled sleeping voice.

Dante cut his eyes at him, crunching on the only meal he'd had in hours.

"What are they for?"

"Cynicism." He slid the bottle back into his pocket.

Nero sat up stiffly and brushed the hair out of his eyes. The digital clock on the nightstand was flashing two thirteen in the afternoon. It had to have been at least that when the power cut out. The rain was raging outside and every time the thunder clapped the lights would flicker.

"She's okay, right?" Nero asked, swinging his feet onto the floor.

Dante shrugged. "Hungry, tired. Easy remedies. I'm surprised we lasted this long. You're a fucking GPS blimp."

Nero looked back over his shoulder at Dante through slanted eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dante stood up and looked around the room suspiciously. His entire demeanor had changed.

"You're arm."

"What about it?"

"It's glowing."

Nero, alert now, joined Dante in a wide-eyed search about the room. He lowered his hand to the floor, eyes up and about, pawing blindly for Blue Rose he had settled there.

Dante lifted a finger to him.

"Don't." Stray bullets take more than supernatural lives.

Despite Dante's warning, he wasn't going to be unarmed. When he found Blue Rose and wrapped his fingers around her, she gripped him back.

He lurched his hand back so violently he nearly toppled over the other side of the bed.

"Something grabbed me…" He explained when Dante looked at him quizzically. He shook the memory of the spiny grip from his hand, reached down for Blue Rose again successfully. Dante backed slowly toward the front door, eyes on the ground now.

"Go get Kyrie."

Nero was already heading there before Dante finished his instruction. Two steps from the bathroom door and a scythe dropped down from the ceiling behind him, speared him between the shoulders and tacked him to the ceiling in one unseen gesture.

"Argh!"

Cheek pressed against the ceiling, legs dangling like marionette, he tried to painfully pry himself free, spraying the room in his attempt. Kyrie it sounded, was in her own screaming struggle in the bathroom. Before Dante could react, Trish came sailing in through the window, raining glass shards in a tangle of blonde hair and dark leather. Disoriented, she managed to roll herself into a ready position across the bed, guns poised. Dante darted past her and yanked Nero down from the ceiling on his way into the bathroom. When he kicked in the door, Kyrie was being sucked out the bathroom window, her arms and legs plastered to the inside wall in protest. A spidery hand was wound around her midsection, sucking her through the small window.

Dante leapt into the tub and took hold of her arm, trying to tug her back in through the narrow window but the rain pouring in made his grip slippery. She in turn tried to reach in and grab a hold of him—anything—but the opposing tug of war was tearing her in half.

Finally her slippery arm slid out of his own. In a flash she was a screaming blur being carried off in the rain. Dante pulled himself up and out the window, ignoring the cutting glass ripping his clothes.

Nero took a hard landing, further accepting the scythe into his chest when he fell, a time stopping injury Dante unknowingly contributed to. By the time he had scrambled to his feet, two ghostly Sin Scythes were floating around the small motel room, their skeletal faces ajar. Trish, never stalling, leapt up and found her fingers sunken into the hollow sockets of the nearest Scythe. She gripped the weapon in her free hand and began violently twisting the skeletal head, a motion that seemed to send it twisting uncontrollably around the room. Nero fired off three shots from Blue Rose into the second spirit's face. When it didn't slow it, he ripped out the scythe from his own body and hooked it into the face, following Trish's fashion. The cramped space didn't allow a lot of room for aerial combat, so Nero's twirling and Trish's wild ride stirred up the room like a blender. The ethereal bodies of the Scythes passed through one another like a breeze, but Trish and Nero collided forcefully. They detached from their oppositions, winded, and laying next to one another in equal disgust and frustration. From his position on the floor, the Devil Bringer shot out, drew his victim into his lap in a blue flash. He worked his fingers into its' mouth and started to pry the face apart. With a sickening crunch, the skull fell apart in his hands and the ghostly body dissipated moments later. The remaining Scythe materialized through the ceiling and was gone without further confrontation.

Breathless, the two of them sat pressed up against the wall, chests heaving. The motel room was a wreck. The bed found it self upside down and broken, bleeding stuffing and splintered wood, the ceiling fan was swinging by a wire and both the bathroom and the front door were off the hinges.

Both of them seemed to realize they were alone at the same time and turned to face each other asking the same question with different subjects.

"Where's Kyrie/Dante?"

Luckily, Kyrie's captors could not ease through buildings with her attached, so they had to maneuver around things that otherwise would not be a bother, much to Dante's gain. Dante leapt out the bathroom window, missing her by a hair, and landed with a thud into the balcony below. Post haste he was up, launching onto the fire escape across the alley. He latched on to the slippery bars, and pulled up onto the stairs to make a frantic three story zig-zag onto the roof where Kyrie's screams were the only thing he could follow in the blinding rain.

He was certain he would get there this time. Latching onto her was the satisfaction he was seeking, considering he'd blotched up his last opportunity. Thankfully, the only injury she sustained was a fractured ankle. This girl was more trouble than he could ever imagine, he thought, pulling himself onto the building top. He could see her hovering across the top, heading for the other side. If he didn't get to her this time, leaping across the building to the next roof was a jump he would fall short of in this weather. Of that he was certain.

He broke into a run, closing the gap, watching her writhe and struggle, reaching her arms down to him.

"Dante!"

When she cleared the rooftop her hopes were dashed, watching him make for the edge under speed. She was halfway between buildings when he pushed off from the edge and went sailing into her arms in a mid air tackle. The entire party dropped with his added weight and as grace would have it, in through a third story office window. His shoulder took the impact, softening the blow for Kyrie who was rolling end on end across the floor. Dante managed a proper break fall into a stand, wasting no time grabbing a handful of Kyrie and forcing her to her feet. He knew his enemies would not be affected and they weren't; the two bodiless mists appeared again spinning scythes. He forced her up squealing in discomfort. No time to be tender or apologetic for his less than glamorous rescue.

"Come on!" He was half- running, half-dragging her through a maze of empty cubicles, the pair of them but a breath away from her captors in hot pursuit, their haunting glottal laughter the only indicator of distance. He didn't know if he had a handful of hair or clothes or both, but he was dictating her around desks and over fallen chairs, roughly tugging her about like a rag doll. When he kicked open the stairwell door, he contemplated throwing her down the steps but thought better of it. There was a baby inside, after all.

"Get downstairs! Now!"

By the time he'd turned around the charging demon was on and in him, sailing him into the railing and slashing violently. She could hear him being ripped apart but didn't turn to look. She couldn't help him away. She did as she was told, tearfully hobbling down the steps as fast as her rubbery legs would take her, sliding down the wall for support. By the time she'd rounded the break to the second flight down, Dante was tumbling down the stairs behind her in an avalanche of red, Ebony and Ivory echoing deafeningly throughout the stairwell. She pressed her palms into her ears and kept going blindly, second story exit, first story exit and out into the lobby of the ground floor. She hopped across to the double doors of the main, found them locked, dared not to look back and immediately started to a side exit. She barely found the strength to push open the doors but she was finally back in the rain, sulking and trying to catch her breath.

Dante was sliding down to the ground floor on the skull of his fallen adversary, Alastor poised over his shoulder like a shot put in wait of his second target to round the stairs and meet the business end of Alastor. It did just as planned and found itself stuck to the wall with Alastor jutting out between its' lifeless skull. By the time he'd gotten to the ground floor his makeshift surfboard was no more and Alastor was making its way back to him.

When Dante burst through the side door Kyrie screamed in fright.

"Whoa! It's me," he soothed, hands held out peacefully. Soaking wet and trembling like a leaf, she backed into the side of a city dumpster, too traumatized to complain about the stench she would otherwise be griping about. Dante bent down to look at her, sheathing his guns again.

"You alright?" He asked, helping her pull out tangled pieces of glass from her matted mop of red hair. She was ash white from shock but nodded despite herself. She hugged her knees for comfort and buried her head in her arms.

"Good." He crashed next to her, draping an arm across his slashed midsection to cover his injuries from her. He looked up to the building top and marveled that she had made it to the ground floor alive. He was some how proud of his slapdash rescue.

He groaned when he tried to sit up, catching Kyrie's attention.

Her concern bested her. "Dante, are you hurt?" She took his arm tenderly, looking him over. He was truly a sight, a bit more red than usual, ruby rivers of bloodied water dripping off of him. He was covered in scrapes and bruises, glittering with glass shards and of course, soaking wet. When she forced his hand away from his chest to reveal his pouring gash, she lurched back in a panic.

"You _are _hurt! What are we going to do if they come back?! You can't possibly defend yourself!"

Dante quieted her gently, waving away her concern. "Easy, kid. Trust me, nothing is coming." Not for them anyway.

He reached up a thumb to her cheek and brushed away a trickle of blood from her face. "Looks like you're gonna have a scar there, sweetheart."

The thought alone seemed to trouble her when she pressed her hand against her face where he had touched her.

"Don't worry. You'll still be pretty. And me…" He pulled back his trench coat to reveal his once gashed chest, the wound seemingly imagined and the only memory of his assault a watery bloodstain and a tear in his shirt he easily concealed by zipping up his vest. When she looked back into his face there was a light rose color rushing back into his cheeks.

He winked at her.

It suddenly occurred to her to ask a troubling question. "Can you—can _he_ die?"

Dante got up to his feet and swept his frosty hair out of his eyes. He offered a hand to help her up.

"Definitely."

He had answered her so nonchalantly to defer her from the topic but the grim nature of the truth only made her even more conscious of her thin mortality and even more so of Nero's. He _wasn't_ invulnerable.

He pulled her up with ease. "I'll go get us a ride. We got places to be."

Dante watched the man in the distressed leather jacket slide on his helmet with his back turned to him, adjusting his gloves and side view mirrors on his naked motorcycle, red trim, which is why Dante selected it. By the time he'd adjusted the mirrors to his liking, Ivory was pressed into the small of his back. His hands shot up in the air instinctively.

"Oh, come on." The man groaned.

"Gimmie your wallet and get off the bike."

His victim casually reached into his jacket and produced a wallet. "I'm an off duty police officer, I'll have you know."

Dante snatched his wallet, fished out the ID and tossed the wallet to the ground in front of him.

"You want your head blown off? Beat it."

The helmeted head turned slightly to look at his offender but Dante shoved him off the bike and mounted it himself.

"I promise I'll get this back to you when I can," he paused to read the name on the ID, "Mr. Leon S. Kennedy." He tucked the ID into his back pocket adding another name on his long list of IOU's. "This is a civil service, trust me."

He revved up the bike and shot past its owner, standing baffled under the awning in front of a twenty-four hour drug store.


End file.
